


There’s daggers in men’s smiles

by TheLionInMyBed



Series: Raised By Wolves [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: And all the love and antipathy that goes with that, Gen, Grieving, Referenced Major Character Death, Siblings, mentions of gore, that thing when assholes tell you to smile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 05:34:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10587489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLionInMyBed/pseuds/TheLionInMyBed
Summary: Gilavar Košava defied his family and the gods to save his little cousin from the most horrible death imaginable. But this isn't the story of how he did that or why, or what happened to him after.Tehaneth Il'harren does have a way of making everything about himself.





	

**Author's Note:**

> You will almost certainly not remember that Khazri took a guess as to Gilavar's likely fate in Small Sacrifices. It was, unfortunately, a pretty good one.

His brother was dead. Saying it didn’t make it sound any more true.

His father wouldn’t talk - not to him, not to anyone - Cousin Cierza’s brittle cheer was almost as exhausting to watch as it must be to maintain, and his friends had all hated Gilavar and thought he should be celebrating.

There were things that were expected of you when you mourned, even for a sibling you’d never really liked or understood. Tehaneth wore stark white robes and didn’t touch his food and drifted, ephemeral and tragic, through the corridors of the manor. When people offered their condolences and told him how strong he was being, he smiled his bravest, most tremulous smile and bit the inside of his cheek until his eyes glistened with unshed tears. Gilavar would have _hated_ that which amused him for a day or so and then depressed him because what was the point of trying to annoy a ghost?

“I’d like to go riding,” he said when, on the third day, he couldn’t bear it anymore, and waited peaceably as his horse was saddled and a pair of guards were called up to escort him.

It was a market day and people swarmed the streets like flies clouding above a corpse. The women at arms rode before him, their horses shouldering peasants aside to clear a path. He couldn’t ride as well as his brother, who might as well have been half horse - had certainly smelt the part - but the advantage of being the _good_ son was that no one expected him to veer into a side street and urge his horse into a canter. The guards, mired in an especially tight knot of peasants, reacted too slowly and by the time they’d turned their mounts and forced their way out of the crowd, he had vanished into the tumult.

It was foolish and irresponsible and all the things his brother had been and Tehaneth never was. The wind clawed the braids from his hair and snatched at his veil. He let it have it and rode bareheaded through the streets until his horse began to flag. There was no sound of pursuit by then and so he reined up and dismounted to let her drink from a fountain.

He’d stayed upon Amanita’s Hill because his robes alone were worth a small fortune and the thing his brother had never understood about rebellion was that it didn’t go hand in hand with being _stupid_. The Hill was home to the townhouses of his family’s friends and neighbours, separated by wide, toadstool lined avenues, where the Watch rarely needed to venture. Not because no crimes were committed but because they were a better class of crime, those that were dealt with not by peasants with cheap tin badges but through duels and assassinations and hostile takeovers.

It was in a mansion not two streets from this plaza that Gilavar had challenged Jareshi Alvanarr to a duel. She’d laughed and begun to turn away and so Gilavar had slammed his goblet into her face. It was a fine piece of glasswork and it had shattered instantly, leaving Gilavar grinning with a handful of bloody shards and Jareshi moaning on the floor.

Tehaneth had never needed Gilavar to fight his battles for him, would have found his own way to pay her back for his bruised wrist and torn gown and wounded pride. All the same, there had been something deeply satisfying in seeing her mouth ripped open to her ear, blood oozing between her fingers and pooling between her exposed teeth as she tried to hold her face together.

The tears took him by surprise. Tehaneth could cry prettily - had learnt the trick at four - but he would save that for the funeral. It seemed a more fitting tribute to choke out angry, rasping sobs that tore at his throat, to let his face go flushed and blotchy, to get snot and saliva on the silk sleeve of his robe.

It worried him, just a little, that even this ugliness was calculated.

The lip of the fountain was milky white stone that chilled his legs and soaked through his clothes when he sank down upon it. His robes would be ruined but, for all Gil had called him a vain, prissy little slut, he couldn’t find it in himself to care. The horse nosed at his hair and then, upon being ignored, lowered her head to nibble at the frills of fungus sprouting up between the paving slabs. Kadja, his familiar, clicked her mandibles in disapproval and started to comb the tangles from his hair.

Gilavar had been prickly and rude and an embarrassment to the family and if Tehaneth was sorry to see him go, it was only because now he’d labour under higher scrutiny, greater expectations. No one had scrutinised Tehaneth before when his brother, with his tangled hair and futile defiance, was waving swords around in the courtyard and sneaking away to pit fights, gambling dens and Valian alone knew what else.

The horse snorted and another answered from down the street, forcing him to dry his face on his sleeve and put his robes into some semblance of order. The clatter of hooves rang loud the courtyard, where the only sound was the fountain’s musical tinkling. The rider was dressed in silk and silver with a jade serpent embroidered on the breast of her doublet, marking her as a daughter of House N’aschi.

He didn’t acknowledge her because his head hurt and his brother was dead and, for just one hour, common decency could go _fuck_ itself.

“Are you well, sir?” she asked him.

Or not. “Quite well, thank you ma’am.”

“You do not look well,” she said, dismounting. “You’re far too pretty to look so sad. Is there aught that I can do?”

“No,” he said, too sharply. Softer; “No, there is not. I thank you for your kindness but I would rather be alone.”

“What kind of woman would leave a gentleman so distressed and without an escort? Please,” she said. “May I sit with you?”

“What would people say?” Lightly spoken, so as not to offend her, but not so light that she could take it as encouragement. It was a difficult balance to strike and often enough it made no difference if he managed it, but he preferred to pretend he had some control in this.

“There’s no one here,” she said. “Your reputation is quite safe.”

Tehaneth gathered his robes and stood, reaching for his horse’s bridle. “My reputation may be safe but the rest of me shall suffer if I’m late home again. Please excuse me.”

“Will you run from me like some prince in a story?” Her voice was teasing. She caught his wrist, gentle but too firm for him to pull away. “If you are truly well then you must be on your way. But first, please, smile for me.”

If he’d been his brother he would have spat in her face.

But Tehaneth was Tehaneth and Gilavar was dead and so he smiled - his brightest, loveliest smile - and remembered her face and her crest. Remembered how Jareshi Alvanarr had smiled for him.

“Your name, ma’am?” He allowed her to help him into the saddle.

“Sanissu of House N’aschi.”

“Well, Sanissu N’aschi, I hope we meet again.”

They would for he’d make sure of it.

It would be a more fitting tribute than tears.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr [here](http://thelioninmybed.tumblr.com), come say hi!


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